


Thread Through a Needle

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Break Up, Fluff and Mush, Getting Back Together, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, i love them, these melodramatic jerks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: Erik and Charles are broken up. Neither of them want to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikeracity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/gifts).



> For ike - happy birthday little bear :DD
> 
> (this is meandering and melodramatic...that's just where my brain is at these days)

> Your absence has gone through me 
> 
> Like thread through a needle. 
> 
> Everything I do is stitched with its color.
> 
>  
> 
> ~ W.S. Merwin

 

After a few drinks, Charles thoughts always turn to Erik.  To be fair, Erik is always on his mind, whether he’s awake or asleep or sober, but after a third glass of whiskey the tenor of the thoughts shift from hurt and muddled resentment to the shape of Erik’s mouth when he smiles, or his long fingers reaching toward Charles from across a table.

On this particular night, when Charles has lost track of the number of drinks he’s had and the lights of the bar are swinging lazily before his eyes, he aches for Erik. Every other man he sees has Erik’s height, Erik’s eyes, the same auburn hair. He has to struggle to keep his thoughts in check, his mind an unleashed animal that hunts the room for one mind, that shining beacon – and comes back with nothing, only the void Charles has felt for the past two weeks.

He fumbles for his phone but the screen is frustratingly blurred and blank. He tries to unlock it four times before it shuts down and he remembers that Raven had taken it and changed his password before she left with a stern warning about drunk texting that he can’t quite remember.

He leans his elbow on the bar and misses, slipping and stumbling into a warm body whose thoughts trumpet arousal as he turns and catches Charles’ arm.

“Hey there,” the body says, but he’s too short and too blond, and his mind is a dull gold and all wrong. It turns Charles’ stomach and he lurches away into the throng of people surrounding the bar, their thoughts pressing on him like the thick crush of their bodies.

Before Charles is aware of what’s happening he’s outside. It’s raining hard, but the water does nothing to clear his brain, full of alcohol and the thoughts of the people inside and out and all along the boulevard. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off a headache, but it only serves to blur his vision further.

There’s a cab waiting at the curb, its light a beacon through the downpour, and Charles heads toward it. He barely has enough mental faculties to mumble an address before he falls asleep against the window, the glass cold enough to numb his thoughts, and the thoughts of the world, to a distant roar.

***

When he wakes up he’s in a bed that’s familiar, but not his own.

He knows in an instant where he is, even if he’s not sure how he got there. Erik’s mind is clear and distinct a room away, muffled with sleep and slowly picking through a crossword as he waits for his ancient coffee maker brew something that almost resembles coffee. For a moment Charles can pretend that everything is as it was – Erik up with the sun and making coffee while Charles dozes until Erik brings him a cup. He pretends that he’s only plotting to pull Erik into bed as he always did and persuade him to stay under the covers for a little longer.

It’s easier to pretend than it is to figure out why he woke up in his ex-boyfriend’s bed with only a hangover to keep him company.

He waits until he knows he can’t wait any longer and then hauls himself out of bed. The ceiling is spinning in a slow circle when he sits up and he pauses on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress until it settles. Someone has removed his socks and waistcoat; his spare change, watch and belt are piled neatly on the dresser across the room. There’s a glass of water and two Advil waiting for him in the bathroom and he spares a moment to feel furious at Erik, at himself, at the whole messy situation before he swallows them down with a wince.

Erik is sitting at the cramped table by the window by the time Charles slinks into the kitchen. He’s painfully aware that he was unable to tame his hair or wipe the redness from his eyes while he was in the bathroom, that his teeth are unwashed and his clothes are rumpled from sleep. Erik looks better than the last time Charles saw him, the bastard. His beard is growing in, but he looks rugged instead of haggard, and he’s wearing the soft grey Henley that pulls away from his throat in a way that makes Charles want to hold him and put his mouth just _there_.

He fidgets for a moment, twisting the ends of his cuffs in his hands, before Erik takes pity on him.

“There’s coffee,” he says, and then after a moment’s pause, “and tea.”

Charles nods and heads over to the cupboard. Something sharp twists in his chest when he sees his stupid plastic tub full of Earl Grey sitting in the exact spot he left it two weeks ago.

Taking it down with shaking hands he jokes,

“I’d assumed you had dumped it all down the drain.” When he glances back over his shoulder Erik is staring pointedly down at his crossword puzzle, his pen gripped tightly in one hand. Charles turns away quickly and reaches for the kettle. He tries again as he slowly fills it with water from the tap.

“What happened last night?”

“Apparently you were so wasted you couldn’t remember your own address.”

The words are said so coldly Charles startles and sloshes water over his shirtfront. He swears loudly and drops the kettle in the sink where it clatters loudly against the metal basin. The noise is followed by silence and Charles puts a hand to his face, embarrassed and small and pathetic.

He takes a moment to breathe, and then turns away from the sink, his eyes fixed on the black and white linoleum of Erik’s floor.

“I should go.”

Before he can make it past the counter Erik is blocking his way, his hands hovering in the air between them.

“Wait. I – I’m – “

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Charles cuts in. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” He finally chances a glance at Erik’s face and finds he can’t hold his gaze. His mind is radiating confusion and hurt and memories of the last time they stood in the kitchen and hurled cruel words at one another. It makes Charles want to cry and he bites down hard on his lower lip.

“I’m an idiot,” he says instead. “I’m a messy drunk.” _Just like my mother_ his brain shouts without his permission and Erik’s face grows hard.

“Hey,” he says when Charles tries to gently push past him, “hey, stop for a second.” He grips Charles by the shoulders and propels him over to the living room where his favourite couch is crammed up next to the window.

“What’s going on with you?” Erik asks once they’re both seated, their knees touching. “Did something happen last night?” He’s genuinely concerned now, his mind already turning toward vengeance, his worry stamped down under his intense desire to protect Charles.

“I missed you,” Charles blurts out. He means it as an answer to Erik’s question, but also as the purest, truest thing he can think of to say in this moment, sitting on the couch he forced Erik to keep even though it’s a monstrosity, feeling Erik’s leg pressed against his just as Erik’s mind fills his whole world, familiar and lovely and so, so missed.

He feels that mind recoil at his words, Erik’s shields raising defensively. Charles can see him scrambling for words and waits him out.

“You ended it,” is what he finally lands on, the words laced with hurt and confusion. Charles can’t blame him. He feels the same way, but more than anything he feels exhausted. He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes, his hand reaching out for Erik’s.

“I thought you’d call my bluff.” Erik’s mind is incredulous and turning toward frustration, so Charles tries again.

“I was scared.” He opens his eyes and finds Erik’s gaze, holding it this time. “And when you gave me an out I took it.”

He can still remember Erik’s anger, incandescent and filling the room as always. And when Charles had said, “I know it’s not easy to be with me,” offering up that primal fear, how sharp and quick Erik’s response had come: “That’s the first thing you’ve been right about.”

Erik is turning their fight over and over in his own head, and Charles can sense his regret. He can also sense the moment he shoves it aside in favour of anger.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking Charles. I can’t tell when it’s a test.” He finally reaches out and takes Charles hand, and some of the anger deflates.

“You _are_ hard to be with,” he says, and before the pang of hurt can settle in Charles’ chest he continues, “so am I. So is everybody. But you can’t just bail when it gets hard.”

Charles feels a bit like crying again and he leans into Erik the same way he always does when he wants a hug. Erik doesn’t let him down, pulling him in all the way and squeezing him tight.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispers against his throat. Erik runs a hand down his spine soothingly.

“So am I.”

They sit like that for a while before Erik says, “Really, you should be apologizing to the cabbie from last night. He’s the one who had to wake me up at 3am.”

Charles snorts, his laugh muffed against Erik’s shoulder.

“Poor man.”

He’s suddenly aware that he’s sitting on a crumpled up blanket, and when he looks, a pillow stolen from the bed.

“Did you sleep here last night?”

Erik gives him an incredulous look.

“Yes, Charles. Where else was I supposed to sleep?”

“I could have slept on the couch!”

Erik rolls his eyes. “You were very emphatic about sleeping in our bed.”

His use of the word ‘our’ makes them both pause, and before another serious conversation can begin, Charles stands and tugs Erik to his feet.

“Come on, I need a shower.”

Erik allows himself to be propelled down the hallway. “And why do I need to come?”

Charles wafts a catalogue of thoughts over to him that include wet, naked skin, his mouth around Erik’s cock, fingers slippery with lube. And then, tentatively, a question mark.

Erik bumps into the doorframe.

“Okay, yes, shower.”

Charles grins and peels his rumpled shirt off, feeling lighter than he has in weeks despite the sticky sweat on his chest and his lingering hangover.

“Shower, and then a nap. In our bed.”


End file.
